


Everything has changed

by coffeeisoxygen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 7x02 coda, Angst, Depression, Episode Related, Ficlet, M/M, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:51:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeisoxygen/pseuds/coffeeisoxygen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though things <em>look</em> the same, <em>everything</em> has changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything has changed

**Author's Note:**

> Title is borrowed from the Lucinda Williams song "Everything has changed". 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural nor its characters and I make no profit from this.

Everything has changed.

As morning comes he opens his eyes and he sees, as usual, and he can put words to objects and knows their use.

Knows that to get the coffee maker going, you plug it in the socket located on the wall, fill the thing up with measured water, dress it with a filter before either going about it the Sam-way and meticulously counting spoonfulls of the dark powder, or you go about it the Dean-way and just tip the bag into it until the filter is full. He knows the smell and the taste and the feel of waking up a little bit more with every few sips of the rich, silky liquid. Knows that if he’s too tired he’ll drink enough that his hands will start to slightly tremble along with an unpleasant little flutter dancing around in his body for a few hours. 

He _knows_. And because he knows he can _almost_ smell it as he reaches the full mug to his lips to take the first sip of the morning. He can _almost_ taste it. _Almost_ feel the silk against his tongue as it slides smoothly across and down along his throat, warming his body for a fraction of a second and offering hints of comfort before the bucket of ice-water that is reality is splashed allover him again.

He remembers the taste. Remembers it as well as he remembers the feel of two burning points on his back, borrowed eyes that could swallow him whole - just as that borrowed body had been, invaded by big-mouthed monsters that forced its steps down into a lake, leaving nothing but fleeting black ooze and a trenchcoat covered in blood.

He remembers the feel of those eyes on his back, can almost feel them now, always, almost burning holes into his back. Of course, when he turns around there is never anyone to greet him. Except for Sam, sometimes, with his own eyes half hidden underneath heavy, concerned furrows of his brows, a thousand and one questions and reassurences and godknowswhatelse fighting over the chance to to come out into words, but always hindered by Sam’s better judgment. Sometimes Dean is incredibly grateful to have a brother who knows him so well it’s bordering creepy.

He _can’t_ talk about him.

Can’t talk about _that day_ , the one that repeats itself every night in the far-off corners of his mind as it gives into exhaustion and hauls him off into unconciousness.

If he talks about him, he fears the _almost_ will gain strenght enough to invade him too, and drag him down into the black water. Sometimes he longs for that. _Sometimes_ is the understatement of the century.

But he cannot, _will_ not, abandon his brother. It is not an option.

So he takes another sip. Wakes up to another day.

And keeps pretending that he can still _smell_ , and _taste_ , and _feel_ things the way he used to. That he _can’t_ feel blue eyes drilling holes into his back.

That even though things _look_ the same, _everything_ has changed.


End file.
